


Muscle Memory

by Imitari



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Magic Made Them Do It, Stream of Consciousness, awkward!sex, barely any plot, blow jobs!, dean is straight except when he's not, i'm useless with tags., required sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-20
Updated: 2012-08-20
Packaged: 2017-11-12 13:33:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/491604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imitari/pseuds/Imitari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Cas stuck in a room.  Cas needs more power.  Dean has the power.  Plus, there's possible 'oral copulation.' All good, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Muscle Memory

Rule of Survival Number ... Whatever:  Don't go in a room unless you know how to get back out.  It's a good rule.  Dean doesn't always follow the rules because, you know, sometimes you gotta break some rules to break some heads, yadda yadda, but, right now, he kind of wishes he'd stuck with the rules on this one because, dammit, he's stuck.  Like, royally stuck.  He checks again, just to be sure, but the door he came in through is definitely gone.  As in 'like it was never there' gone.

He walks the perimeter, eyeing the bricks, but nothing sticks out, nothing says, "Hey, look.  I open a secret passage way."

Which sucks.  Small room, too, maybe six by five, no furniture, no light (he's got his flashlight, thanks), nothing in the ceiling (like air vents, sweet, don't panic, keep breathing steady), and definitely no doors.  And, fucking perfect, no signal on his phone.  On the plus side, there aren't any corpses or piles of bones or rats.  Yay.

If he gets out of this one, when he gets out, Bobby is going to laugh so hard.  Which is fine.  While the old bastard gasps for breath, Dean'll swipe the good stuff out of the cabinet and consol himself.  Fucking old houses.  Fucking old possibly _haunted_ houses.  Should've brought back up (Survival Rule Number Who Gives A Fuck) but with Sam throwing up everything he puts in his stomach and Bobby playing nursemaid, there wasn't anyone else and Dean wasn't going to spend another second in that house / infirmary.  No way.  Sam was throwing up enough for two, thanks.  
   
Ok.  Out of here, first.  Dean takes a deep breath (don't think about losing air) and starts another round of the room, looking for clues.  There's a gust of air along his shoulders and he jerks around, gun up, but it's nothing.  Well, not nothing.  Cas staring directly into the blazing flashlight.  Dean drops his gun to his side and shifts the light so it isn't shining right in the dumb-angel-who-doesn't-know-to-look-away's face.

"Shit, Cas.  You trying to kill me? The hell you doing here?"

"Bobby said you would be here," Cas tilts his head and turns his eyes on the room, studying the walls, "Interesting."

"If by interesting you mean weird, yeah, ok," Dean makes allowances for Cas's nerdy side, he does, but he was pretty sure he was stuck in this room of disappearing doors (and air.  He's not hung up on that.  He just likes breathing) and now that Cas is here, he relaxes, because, you know, angel transportation has arrived, thanks Bobby, except that Cas is still studying the walls, eyes all squinting, and not, _you know_ , zapping them out of there.  Dean flails a little at the tiny space around them,

"Can we go now, Cas?"

The angel's perpetual almost frown deepens as he reaches out with one hand and pokes the brick wall.  Which makes him frown more.  The relaxation Dean was experiencing goes up in smoke.  

"No," says Cas, "I am afraid we cannot."

"No? Why not?"

"This is very old magic, Dean," Cas walks the length of the room, peering sideways at the exact spot Dean entered, where that damn door used to be, "It is meant to contain all creatures that enter it."

"Yeah?" Dean huffs and sweeps his flashlight around the room, "Why no bones then, man?"

"Well," Cas looks up at the ceiling, "Probably because everything that enters is eventually consumed."

Dean flicks the light up. The ceiling hasn't changed from when he first checked it out but, somehow, it looks a lot more ominous than it had the first time, "Consumed? By what?"

"I am uncertain," admits the angel, "As I said, this is very old, and ..."

"Dude, older than you?" Dean grins.  He may not be able to see Cas's wings but he loves ruffling those feathers, big time, and Cas is definitely looking a little peeved.

"It is not outside my realm of experience, Dean."

Dean rolls his eyes, because, yeah, yeah, trapped in a doorless / previously doored room with the holy nerd of tax accountants, what is his life and Cas sighs, "I can break it, but ..."

"But what?" 

"I will need a boost."

Man, Cas can make anything sound scary, but Dean's getting used to it, so he shrugs, tucks his gun into the back of his pants, wiggles himself to readiness, waiting to give Cas the boost up he needs to reach the ceiling, "Sure.  You're not too heavy."

Cas sighs, "That is not what I meant, Dean.  I require more power to break the spell.  We will need to have sex."

Hold up.  How did 'boost' suddenly become 'sex' and since when was it ok for Cas to mention sex without a preface of wild eyed panic and, "Uh, come again?"

"Souls are primarily energy," Cas has his 'be patient with the human' look going on, "Sex is a sharing of souls, of energy.  I am in need of a 'boost.'"

Dean should stop staring, probably. The grossed out shudder is a completely normal reaction because, you know, dude, does he have to explain how wrong this is? Given the stiff set of Cas's shoulders and that stubborn, stupid look on the angel's face, he does.  Dammit.

"Uh, Cas..."

"Dean."

Ok, deep breath, fuck, stop wasting the good air, this room is big enough for a few hours, maybe, right? He hates math.  Cas is still here.  Still, yeah, yeah, there's another way, there's always another way, so.

"Any other way of getting you mojo'd up, Cas? Preferably one where you keep your pants on?"

"I would not have to remove my pants. I merely require to orally copulate with you."

"What!? Ew." 

Cas plows on, heedless of Dean's frantic fish face, "There would be enough 'mojo,' as you say, in your seminal fluid for a sufficient boost."

Dean doesn't have anything to say to that and Cas frowns, just a little, as he reconsiders the wall, "Enough to get us out of here, anyway."

Process, process what he said and, shit, his mouth always opens without his permission, "Wait, my ... Cas, that's disgusting."

"You deeply enjoy oral stimulation of your penis ..." And there is no way they are having this conversation, no way, and why does Cas have to look so earnest? Dean slashes the air,

"Hold it! Just ... Zip it."

Dean presses his hands to his eyes and forehead, "Is there any other way, Cas?"

"We don't have many options, Dean.  In order to break the magic, I need more energy."

"Can't you, I don't know, plug into a socket or something?" Not that there are any electrical outlets in here, tiny detail, who cares?

"It is insufficient."

"And spunk is sufficient?"

"Yes," Castiel answers firmly and then pauses, "If spunk means ..."

"Yeah, Cas, it does." God, he needs a new life.  His head hurts.  Are they running out of air? Does Cas even breathe? Shit.  Focus on the issue.  Cas needs a boost.  Of seminal fluid.  Uh.

"And, uh, you want to, ah, "orally stimulate my penis" ..."

"It isn't so much a matter of want, Dean.  It is a matter of what is required.  You are the only one available."

"Wow," Dean snorts, "Way to romance a guy, Cas."

"I don't see ..."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean waves it aside, maybe sarcasm wasn't the best choice at the moment, just, "Ok.  Um.  Oh, come on, Cas.  Really?" He isn't whining.  Dean Winchester does not whine.  He wheedles, _maybe_ , but whine? Hell no.

"Yes, Dean," exasperated Cas is exasperated.  Is he twitching? Shit.

"You ... Oh, man."

"Dean, I don't understand why this is so difficult for you.  You've never hesitated to enjoy oral ..."

"Blow job, Cas," sighs Dean.  He might as well give the guy something less nerdy to say.  One more 'oral copulation' out of the angel's mouth and Dean would shoot him on principle, "It's called a 'blow job.'"

"...Blow jobs with your sexual partners.  I believe I have ..."

Woah, railroaded, Cas is on a mission. Dean knows a loss when he sees one.  He does.  And a blow job is a blow job. There was that one transvestite in New Orleans, best damn blow job of his life, even if he had been too drunk to check for an Adam's apple, yeah, ok, not thinking about that either.

"Just.  Stop, alright? Yes.  Ok? Yes.  But we're never talking about this again, do you understand?" Dean points with a stern finger, watches Cas's face for understanding, "Not to Sam.  Not to Bobby.  Not to each other. No one."

"Understood."

He screws his eyes shut and let's Cas back him up against the wall.  Flutter of cloth as the angel kneels, the pop of buttons, compulsive swallow against potential nausea.  Not even hard, well, maybe a bit, you can't go tossing around the phrase 'blow job' without some hopeful twitches in your pants, not really, and it has been awhile, he hasn't really wanted this, not since Hell, not since, oh, ok, angel has warm hands and ...

"Relax, Dean." 

"I am relaxed. Don't talk ... _Oh._ "

Upside of how soft he is: his whole cocks fits inside Cas' - no, no, don't think about Castiel, angel of the Lord, wearing a man meatsuit - inside that mouth, hot and wet and oh, yeah, feels good, tugs at his gut a bit, the tip of a nose against his belly, arousal low burn, yeah.  Getting harder, starting to fill out, and _ouch_ , 

"Ouch! Dammit, Cas, watch the teeth!"

There's an aggrivated rasp from his belt region, "Hold still..."

And one steel hand at his hip, the other wrapped around his cock and that mouth again, tongue under the head, slipping down, woah, all the way in, ah, some throat, no choking, guess being an angel in a vessel has some perks and ... Right, not thinking about that. Feels so good. Tenative thrust forward and the hand holding him shifts, slides around to grab his ass and pull. Yeah, yeah.  Gotta do something with his hands and then, short, thick hair between his fingers, girls with short hair are pretty hot, the heavy weight of his balls, that mouth, oh, a hint of teeth, fast learner, and _bam guh woah_ he's shaking hard enough to come apart and that mouth is milking him, doesn't stop sucking until he's drained, sucked dry, barren wasteland, happy fun good times, yeah.  Oops, should stop petting Cas's head (like he's some kind of dog), knees locked to hold himself up, oh, a nap would be nice and,

Shit.  _Cas._

Eyes wide open now, hands up in defense, and Cas is standing right there, easy, man, personal bubble, and Cas says, "Thank you."

Big fat mouth, "You're welcome?"

Dean hasn't squeaked like that since junior high, dammit.  Angels shouldn't lick spunk off their lips like that, really shouldn't, and Cas nods, "Just a moment."

And pops out.

Dean stares at the space Cas left behind. Right. He scrambles to tuck himself back into his pants and button up, realizes, shit, that his gun is halfway down his pant leg, just in time for Cas to reappear and place a hand on his shoulder and that stupid fucking room is gone, bye bye, back at Bobby's without a by your leave.

Dean stays very still as his _loaded firearm_ slips a little and sticks above his calf.  Cas steps back.

"I must return.  The room should be broken completely lest someone else ..."

"Yeah, yeah, bye," Dean manages a smile and a wave. Gust of air, empty yard. Okay. Deep breath (oh, sweet junk yard air). Pants off, gun out of pants.  Probably shouldn't do that in front of Bobby's house.  He waddles to the porch, praying to every deity in existence that Bobby doesn't meet him at the door and _fucking hell._   

"You're back," Bobby gives him a once over, "Angel find you? Job finished?"

"Uh, yeah," Dean smiles like he isn't choking, post-coital or caught with a gun in his pant leg, "All good, man.  Nothing there."

"What?"

"Nothing, man, false alarm.  Just ... Don't worry about it.  Angel's got it under ... control."

"Right." It's Bobby's 'you're being weird Dean face' but he walks back inside, shouting over his shoulder, "Shut that damn door, boy, cold air doesn't pay for itself."

Dean sighs, steadies himself against the door frame.  He needs a shower. He needs to get these damn pants off before he shoots himself in the ass. He forgot his flashlight. The Impala is still in Nebraska.  Dammit.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry. I'm insane. I need to stop posting stuff from my phone and I should find someone to read this stuff for mistakes before I post it.


End file.
